A Kind of Homecoming

by E. R. Braithwaite

  “Maybe when we are officially proclaimed free and sovereign we can begin to cash in on the ‘Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Africa’ campaign.”

  He continued, “The Americans are with us already, wanting to help to educate us, you know, technical schools, libraries, things like that. There were one or two of them at the reception the other night. You know, if I were a black American I would move heaven and earth to land a job like that, something which kept me outside the United States. Marvellous. I could then be a black American and a human being at the same time, without any sacrifice of dignity.”

  I let it ride; if I tried to tease any comment out of him he promptly reminded me that he was speaking off the record, or else he evaded answering. This way he said his piece, somewhat obliquely, but he said it.

  “Are the Americans the only foreigners actively wanting to help here?”

  “Oh, no, we have all kinds. You name them and we have them. Germans, Israelis, Yugoslavs, and others. Much of the new building in Freetown is being done by Israelis. Low tenders but good workmanship, I hear. Then there’s our own special minority group, the Lebanese. You name it and they own it. Everything except the land itself and the owners of the land are usually heavily in their debt. You know, an uninformed outsider could jump to the conclusion that independence is merely a word in these parts.”

  “And what would an informed insider like yourself say about it?” I asked.

  “I’d say that it must be damned hard work winding that ferry,” he replied, pointing to the huge metal float which was being inched slowly across the river by two men using notched sticks to pull on a steel cable stretched waist-high across the river. Crude but effective, yet hardly indicative of progress.

  As soon as it grounded on the sandy bank, we rolled aboard and began the leisurely trip across. Looking up or down river from midstream, one could see huge boulders jutting upwards and creating innumerable eddies and rapids which flashed and twinkled in the sunlight, presenting a picture of rare, wild beauty. Some fishing enthusiasts in Europe would rave about a place like this.

  On the other side of the river, near the little landing-stage, a group of young women were washing clothes, standing waist-deep in the dark water, bare backs and breasts gleaming wet, their faces clean, wholesome, untroubled. All this natural loveliness was new to me and I must have stared, fascinated, because he nudged me in the ribs and said, “Take it easy, boy, there’s lots more where those come from.”

  Now we drove through flat, sparsely wooded country, and always the road bisected the villages through which we passed; these were mostly thatched huts except for the residence of the headman, or chief, which might be a sprawling, roomy structure of wood, thatch or stone. We drove carefully through these villages to avoid harm to the children, dogs or goats which abounded. We often passed women on the road, trudging through the dust under terribly heavy loads, closely followed by their menfolk, burdened with nothing more than a long staff. I noticed that these women were generally unlike the women of Guinea. Their bodies were permanently distorted by the heavy loads they carried on their heads: their spines curved inward so that their stomachs protruded forward and their rumps extended grotesquely backward. Years ago I had read that African women derived graceful deportment from carrying things on their heads. Agreed, provided the “things” were not heavy enough to distort them so dreadfully. Often, in addition to the load on the head, the woman would have a small child strapped to her back; many of them had ugly, pendulous breasts which swung abnormally low and seemed to indicate that the babies, strapped securely as they were, pulled the breasts backward to feed and produced the fearful disfigurement in quite young women. Occasionally I saw a woman with one rounded breast while the other, usually the right breast, was unnaturally elongated, as if the small child favoured it and fed from it exclusively.

  “Life seems to be rather awful for women around here,” I said.

  “Life is awful for everyone around here,” he replied. “It merely happens that women are built in a way which shows it up more easily. Life has changed very little for them, in fact, in spite of all our talk of progress, I’d venture to say that all the women we pass on the road are illiterate, belong to polygamous households, and can hope for little change in their circumstances. They might not be happy, as we think of happiness, but they might not be discontented either, having been taught from early childhood that their role is to serve their men in every way.”

  Evidently the mere male taught that, too.

  Mabang, Masanki, Rotifunk, Banya, Voygema, names fitted to the land. But this was like parkland gone wild, nothing really savage about it, nothing of the “bush” I had read about. Then suddenly the road widened and there were houses—not huts—houses, pleasant bungalows on cleared plots of ground.

  “We’re entering Moyamba,” my friend said.

  I saw large buildings, shops, and a powerhouse, a hospital gleaming white in the gathering dusk, a thriving town along a narrow dirt road.

  “Rather poor communication with Freetown, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “I suppose so. There is a better alternate road north of this one, but it’s about forty miles longer. Let’s pay a call on the Paramount chief.”

  “Wouldn’t he mind our just dropping in on him without warning?”

  “Not ‘him’, her.”

  “A woman?”

  “Why not? We’re a democratic people,” he replied, grinning. “We’ve several lady Paramount chiefs, but this one is perhaps the best known; she’s also a member of the House of Representatives.”

  We swung off the main road and followed a narrow lane into a high-walled courtyard in which were several low, white-painted buildings; the central one was brightly lit within and I could hear the sound of Spanish-type music coming through the wide doorway and windows. We approached this building and leaving the car outside entered a large, cool room, well-lighted from pendant electric fittings and furnished with several comfortable-looking armchairs and cushioned stools. Several people were standing about chatting and laughing, and a group of young women was gathered about a large radiogram.

  “Well, look who’s here,” my friend whispered. “Gathering of the clan.”

  He led me to a small group and introduced me to a thickset, robust man whose thick, brawny arms protruded from a short native poncho; there was much more than mere physical strength in his square face, and when we shook hands, his clamped on mine like a vice.

  “Mr. Albert Margai, I’d like to introduce a friend of mine, a visitor from Europe, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  The man’s deep, rumbling voice welcomed me. “From Europe?” he asked.

  “Recently from Paris,” I replied. “Originally from British Guiana.”

  “Welcome to Sierra Leone,” he repeated, renewing the pressure on my imprisoned hand.

  “Mr. Margai is the Prime Minister’s brother,” my friend explained, “and is minister for natural resources.”

  We chatted together and I had a chance to observe the man, the apparently youthful power and drive, the toughness of him. He seemed good-humoured, his laughter coming easily from behind strong white teeth set in a square bulldog jaw. He was on very friendly terms with everyone and joked with the young women, who giggled shyly. He told us that the Paramount chief, Madame, was dining with the Governor and his family, who were visiting Moyamba, but we would have an opportunity of meeting her later that evening at the dance arranged in conjunction with the beauty contest.

  My friend took me on a short tour of the town, an interesting example of the juxtaposition of tribal life and modern technical progress. Not far from the chief’s compound was the barrier, or local court, a large-roofed concrete platform with a low concrete railing on three sides and furnished with heavy wooden chairs for the officials, and rows of wooden benches for the public. Set in a piece of open ground, it presented a clear view to anyone inte
rested. I thought it was ideally arranged that “justice might be seen to be done”. We passed the mosque, outside of which the overflow of worshippers knelt in prayer, and the Catholic mission, a group of school buildings, church and residents’ accommodation; the residence of the district commissioner, elegantly remote in its neat grounds, rest houses. Everything indicated that this was a thriving, lively community.

  “He looks tough,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The Prime Minister’s brother. One might think that he rather looks the part of leader of a new independent state.”

  I was falling into the same third-party kind of talk in which my friend was so skilled.

  “First of all one would need to understand a few local moves,” my friend said. “Things like personal and tribal loyalties and pressures. One would need to appreciate that it is not very easy to achieve political ambitions at the expense of other members of one’s immediate family, no matter how good one’s chances for success might seem. It would also be unwise for one to underestimate the Old Man’s personal influence with the Paramount chiefs or his own wily ways. Yes, my friend, one could lose when everything indicates that one would win.”

  “Did he have a shot at the premiership, then?”

  “He did, and suddenly, when success seemed assured, he stepped down. Now he is minister of natural resources. However, don’t weep for him; he’s quite young and anything can happen.”

  “Yesterday the newspaperman told me there was no opposition group in the Government.” I thought this as good an occasion as any to get some answers out of him.

  “Your trouble, my friend,” he replied, “is that, like too many others, you see democracy only in British parliamentary terms; anything else is suspect. Why should there be an opposition as such, when every important matter is fully thrashed out in the House of Representatives anyway before action is taken? What good could be served by merely aping what is done in London’s Whitehall? Maybe what you mean is whether any voice is ever raised in criticism of any Government measure or policy. My answer would be no, because I take very little cognizance of the rabble-rousers who quibble merely to attract popular attention without any knowledge or examination of the circumstances. I hold no special brief for the conduct of this Government; I would be the first to admit that it would be the easiest thing to discover evidence of corruption involving many of its highest officials. But an effective opposition would presuppose personal qualities and group loyalties which too many of our politicians either do not possess or cannot afford. Perhaps, in time, things will change. After all, our people have learned new lessons about service and responsibility.”

  A heck of a long speech for him. I wondered where he fitted in all this.

  Twilight had given way to starry night, and there was now plenty of activity: people had completed their period of worship, youngsters were shouting to each other, promising to meet at the dance, cars were flitting to and fro, their horns sharply impatient of the leisurely pedestrians.

  “Why did the younger Margai step down from the premiership?” By swinging away from a subject and then back to it I might catch him off balance.

  “Pressure from the Paramount chiefs,” he replied. “They’ve seen what happened in Ghana and Guinea and they are not the least bit anxious for any reforms to disturb their position or lessen their power. Perhaps someone whispered in their collective ear that young Albert planned to do exactly that. Who knows? . . . You seem to be in luck; if H.E. is here you might be able to meet him.”

  “H.E.?”

  “His Excellency, Sir Maurice Dorman. H.E.”

  “Does he become ex-H.E. after April 27?”

  “Oh, no. He becomes governor-general.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Constitutionally, a great deal. But in terms of his relationship with the people—none. You’ll understand if you meet him.”

  We noticed that the honking motor-cars and laughing people were all headed in a certain direction and followed them till we came to the site of festivities: a piece of ground surrounded by an impromptu fence of interwoven palm fronds and illuminated by strings of multi-coloured electric bulbs; an aperture served as a doorway, and here was placed a small table, behind which three or four persons did a brisk trade in entrance tickets and rosettes. The colour of the rosette determined whether one sat among the high or the low.

  We bought tickets and inside I noticed that the enclosure contained a flat, grassy knoll in front of the local police court, a low building open on three sides and adjoining the police station. This building, of painted concrete, was now clear of all furniture, and polished smooth for dancing. On a raised platform in one corner were musical instruments, ready and waiting for the musicians.

  Already many people were assembled in the enclosure, chatting over drinks, laughing and jollying each other, but I was surprised to see that the majority of the men were wearing formal European dress—dark suits, white shirts, black bow ties, black shoes—and I felt somewhat out of place in a linen shirt and slacks, but hoped I would be recognized as a stranger, unfamiliar with local custom. The women, however, were wearing very colourful costumes: short, flared jackets and ankle-length skirts which looked becomingly lovely and “belonging”.

  My friend introduced me to several persons of his acquaintance: nurses, schoolteachers and local dignitaries of one office or another.

  I met a very charming young man, the director of Sierra Leone broadcasting services, who was there to report on the festivities. It transpired that he knew of me and had presented several recorded programmes I had made in London, so we were soon chatting away very cosily. Gradually I swung the conversation round to independence, but from his guarded answers it was clear that he did not wish to commit himself to any observations. I did not press the matter, appreciating that he was, after all, a civil servant, and must keep his personal views very much to himself. I discovered that he was very well informed, interested in the arts, and was himself a writer and musician of some repute. He was of mixed Lebanese and African ancestry.

  “Does that make you a creole?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “By association I suppose I would be called a creole, because I live in Freetown and practically all my friends are creoles; but I was born in this district, at Rotifunk, and am at liberty to assume my mother’s heritage and call myself an aborigine.”

  He in turn introduced me to several persons, among them his father and mother. There was now a general air of expectancy, a kind of buzzing anticipation, and presently the murmur went around the place: “H.E.’s arrived. His Excellency’s arrived.”

  Into the enclosure came, first of all, an African woman, followed by an English couple and a young girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen years. The African woman was of medium height, small-boned and probably around forty years or so; very difficult to assess the age of these smooth-skinned, attractive women, but the striking thing about her was her dress. I suppose it was the national costume, but it was worn with all the grace and chic of a Balenciaga original. Her skirt and flared jacket were of a colourful silky material which did all kinds of wonderful things to her slim, compact figure; from beneath the skirt occasionally peeped high-heeled golden sandals, while on her head was an intricately folded winged headkerchief of pinkish gauze with a predominant gold thread.

  “The Paramount chief,” my friend whispered.

  The Englishwoman was tall and casually elegant. Some women do not need to be beautiful, what with their abundance of grace and charm; this one seemed to be as completely at ease here in a small African township as she would be at the Queen’s garden party. The man with her was a few inches taller than six feet, ruddy-complexioned, with the physique of an ex-rugby player, dressed in dark trousers, white linen jacket and black tie. I had the impression that clothes as such were not very important to him. The daughter bore a very s
triking resemblance to her mother.

  The musicians must have collected before the group appeared, for now with a roll of drums they played the familiar “God Save the Queen”, at which everyone stood up. This ended, everyone else remained standing until the Governor’s party and the Paramount chief had seated themselves. Soon afterwards the dancing began and the night was filled with the insinuating sounds of African dance music, more especially the now popular “high life”, an import from Ghana. In this dance there was the very minimum of contact between couples, each partner seemed primarily concerned with his or her own freewheeling interpretation of the music and occasionally opposed each other in a kind of impromptu competition. I noticed that the Governor’s daughter, partnered by a young African, was in the thick of things. Her movements were as graceful and natural as those of any other person present, and it was clear that this kind of familiarity with such a dance was not obtained by mechanical tutoring. Teased, urged and completely seduced by the music, I found a partner and was soon completely victimized by the wonderful atmosphere.

  Afterwards I circulated among the people, hoping to get nearer to the Paramount chief, but she was closely involved in the preparations for the beauty contest. Then someone, who introduced himself as the district commissioner, told me he was “required” to take me to the Governor.

  “Your presence has been commanded,” he joked.

  He took me where the Governor and Lady Dorman sat; she was slightly flushed from her recent turn on the dance floor. It transpired that both of them had read my first book, To Sir, With Love, and, hearing that I was present, wanted to meet me.

  “Our careers have much in common, Mr. Braithwaite,” Sir Maurice said. “I too was a schoolmaster, and later was engaged in welfare work.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, “but not by the remotest possibility could I become Governor of anywhere.” He laughed at this, an easy, deep-throated, amused sound.

  “And for that mercy you ought to offer much thanks,” he quipped.